Kindred of the Dust eBook

He strode out to the gate where his father’s
chauffeur waited with the limousine. “Take
the car home,” he ordered, “and as you
pass through town stop in at the Central Garage and
tell them to send a closed car over to me here.”

The chauffeur looked at him with surprise but obeyed
at once. By the time the hired car had arrived
Nan and her child were ready, and just before locking
the house Nan, realizing that they would not return
to the Sawdust Pile until long after nightfall, hauled
in the flag that floated over the little cupola; and
for the second time, old Hector, watching up on the
cliff, viewed this infallible portent of an event
out of the ordinary. His hand trembled as he held
his marine glasses to his blurred eyes and focussed
on The Sawdust Pile, in time to see his son enter
the limousine with Nan Brent and her child—­and
even at that distance he could see that the car in
which they were departing from the Sawdust Pile was
not the one in which Donald had left The Dreamerie.
From that fact alone The Laird deduced that his son
had made his choice; and because Donald was his father’s
son, imbued with the same fierce high pride and love
of independence, he declined to be under obligation
to his people even for the service of an automobile
upon his wedding day.

The Laird stood watching the car until it was out
of sight; then he sighed very deeply, entered the
house and rang for the butler.

“Tell Mrs. McKaye and the young ladies that
I would thank them to come here at once,” he
ordered calmly.

They came precipitately, vaguely apprehensive.
“My dears,” he said in an unnaturally
subdued voice, “Donald has just left the Sawdust
Pile with the Brent lass to be married. He has
made his bed and it is my wish that he shall lie in
it.”

“Oh, Hector!” Mrs. McKaye had spoken quaveringly.
“Oh, Hector, dear, do not be hard on him!”

He raised his great arm as if to silence further argument.
“He has brought disgrace upon my house.
He is no longer son of mine and we are discussing
him for the last time. Hear me, now. There
will be no further mention of Donald in my presence
and I forbid you, Nellie, you, Elizabeth and you,
Jane, to have aught to do wie him, directly or indirectly.”

Mrs. McKaye sat down abruptly and commenced to weep
and wail her woe aloud, while Jane sought vainly to
comfort her. Elizabeth bore the news with extreme
fortitude; with unexpected tact she took her father
by the arm and steered him outside and along the terrace
walk where the agonized sobs and moans of her mother
could not be heard—­for what Elizabeth feared
in that first great moment of remorse was a torrent
of self-accusation from her mother. If, as her
father had stated, Donald was en route to be married,
then the mischief was done and no good could come
out of a confession to The Laird of the manner in
which the family honor had been compromised, not by
Donald, but by his mother, aided and abetted by his
sisters! The Laird, now quite dumb with distress,
walked in silence with his eldest daughter, vaguely
conscious of the comfort of her company and sympathy
in his hour of trial.